


Not Much Ado About Zombies

by ThePlagueBeast



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Banter, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, POV Arya Stark, POV Gendry Waters, POV Sandor Clegane, POV Sansa Stark, Sandor Doesn't Know When To Shut Up, Sandor's Butt Appreciation Fic, weird cousin relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:07:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26038399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePlagueBeast/pseuds/ThePlagueBeast
Summary: It's a modern world, with modern problems. Like zombies. And very large, surly men, who look far too good in tight denim for Sansa's heart to handle.---Modern, Zombie Apocalypse AU that started because there's not enough zombies in the fandom, and none where they're all setup cozy in Winterfell.This is a FUN zombie apocalypse, no sad times here friends. Characters are tagged in order of appearance. Additional tags are added as relevant.
Relationships: Arya Stark & Sansa Stark, Catelyn Stark/Ned Stark, Jon Snow & Sansa Stark, Sandor Clegane & Arya Stark, Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark, Theon Greyjoy & Sansa Stark
Comments: 62
Kudos: 83





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, my giant dorks, in the [SanSan discord](https://discord.gg/28Zy52y), for helping me poke that very basic premise into something that I couldn't help but write (I'm only being a little sarcastic).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day in the life of Sansa Stark, post-apocalypse.

Sansa Stark was having a bad day.

It wasn’t the _worst_ day she’d ever had. That was a toss up between the day she’d found out her boyfriend of three years had been screwing her best friend behind her back the _entire time_ , and the day the world ended.

Well, that’s a _bit_ dramatic. The world’s still there. There’s just fewer people in it. And more zombies. So really, the world’s probably having a pretty good go of it, carbon emissions are surely down after all. Maybe the ice caps will re-freeze and the polar bears will stop being so sad and skinny like all those commercials showed.

That’s all besides the point, though. The _point_ is that Sansa Stark is having a bad day.

It started as most do, now that there’s undead trying to eat people’s faces off: Safely nestled inside the walls of her ancestral home, the historic Winterfell Castle. Modern amenities abound in the family wing, but the remainder of the great plot of buildings and fortifications are as they were hundreds and thousands of years ago. Great hunks of rock.

So her day started with the sun splashing across her face, because of course she’d forgotten to close the drapes. And maybe that would’ve been alright, but she’d been sat up reading in bed and had fallen asleep like that, so now there was a crick in her neck that wouldn’t go away without a long hot soak.

And a hot soak was an _option_ thanks to the hot springs the castle had been built on, except that she’d lost a bet with Theon and had to take his morning chores for the week. So out of bed, with a crick in her neck, to find clothes for the day (jeans and wellies and a T-shirt and a college hoodie she’d stolen from Robb when she was in high school), out to the hen house where the muck was ankle-deep (because _Rickon_ was always running away from _his_ chores and hadn’t cleaned it last), gather the eggs (try not to lose any fingers to the really very aggressive chickens), take the eggs to the kitchen door (do NOT go inside with filthy wellies on), head to the stables to check on water and feed for the horses (don’t get distracted by how soft their noses are), swing by the forge and make sure Gendry’s got fuel for the day ( _don’t_ get distracted by his biceps in that shirt), and on and on until Mum finally rings the bell for _breakfast_ and _gods_ is it only nine in the morning?

She’s never taking a bet from Greyjoy again, this is far too much work for this early in the day and honestly how does he do any of it?

Go through the mud room to take off the filthy wellies and switch to house shoes (because not everyone abides Mum’s mucky shoes rules so it’s not safe to trod around in bare feet), into the kitchen where everything smells _delicious_ (do _not_ touch anything not plated on the island lest you get a spoon to the knuckles), grab a mug of coffee (lament the lack of sugar, but praise the fact that there _is_ still coffee), and settle in while Mum finishes up the morning’s cooking.

And all of this would’ve been alright, but that crick is still in her neck and now she smells like the farm yard, and when was the last time she had proper sugar in her coffee? How did the sugar run out _so fast_? Sure they’d been due their larger purchase for staples and then the apocalypse happened but really, did they go through sugar that fast? _Apparently_ , she thinks, sipping her very bitter coffee.

So before breakfast the day is already off to a pretty crummy start. And then Theon shows up and starts teasing about the bet (and that really is the last time she takes a wager from him, even if she says that every time), and Rickon is complaining that he’s in the house at all (and no one can catch him long enough to get him to _do his chores_ ), and Robb managed to wangle some booze from one of the guests that’d been staying when the whole zombie thing started so he’s hungover and looks more dead than alive and is complaining about the noise (it’s fairly quiet without Arya around to rile everyone up), and Sansa’s getting a tension headache and she still hasn’t had any _toast_ let alone the bacon she’s been smelling since she got in and she’s about ten seconds from losing her shit when Bran bumps shoulders with her and rolls his eyes at the antics of their family.

It calms her down enough to get through breakfast.

And back to her _her actual chores_ which, thank the old gods and the new, are almost entirely indoors today. 

And it would’ve been fine. Just fine. Except today’s a day she planned on working the loom, and it’s one of her _favorite_ things to do, but that _bloody crick in her neck_ and now there’ll be no privacy if she tries for that soak and it’s the apocalypse so she can’t just go and take some ibuprofen and the last time she asked someone for a neck rub she wound up _bruised_ so it’s just going to _stay_ like that until she can relax but every little thing has been bothering her and she’s been tensing up since she woke and-

And there’s shouting. 

It’s well past noon, she’s been working without pause despite her increasingly fouling mood and increasingly painful neck, and there shouldn’t be _anyone_ outside the gates but that’s… that’s definitely the sound of the gates opening!

She jumps up and runs to the mud room, swapping her house shoes for her wellies as quick as she can (and must remember to wash them tonight before the grime settles and the stink forever), bursting outside and grabbing Theon (fucking Greyjoy) by the shoulder and demanding to know what he knows which is nothing and what else is new?

So it’s a run to the gates and thank the gods she’s always been fast because it means that she’s one of the first to see (after Rickon, who’s the ninny who opened the gates without letting anyone else know _why_ ) when _Arya_ rides in on a chestnut horse calm as can be but utterly filthy.

And she’s followed by the largest man Sansa’s ever seen in her life, on the third or fourth largest horse she’s ever seen. 

But he doesn’t matter, **Arya’s home** and Sansa doesn’t slow her run at all and almost takes down her sister and the horse she rode in on in her attempt to hug her. There’s a couple of strange dogs dancing around the horses and the strange (massive) man is staring around warily but Sansa doesn’t really notice anything beyond the fact that she’s managed to drag her baby sister from her saddle and is probably crushing her with her hug but honestly? Neither of them are stopping this right now.

She can hear the shouts and whoops as everyone else arrives (much slower than Sansa, she’s the fastest of the brood, though Papa doesn’t count since he has a limp) and quickly the sisters find themselves as the nucleus of a truly massive group hug with Rickon actually climbing overtop and landing somewhere on their heads.

As the greetings and exclamations settle Mum finally worms her way into the middle and gets Arya set down on her feet for the first time since she got home. And it’s the first time she’s been home since the world went to shit, as well. The sisters _had_ been attending uni in King’s Landing together but there’d been and _incident_ with a professor and Sansa came home to work out whether she wanted to keep on there or try somewhere with a little more _professionalism_. So she’d been home, by sheer luck (and the attentions of a pervert), while Arya (her _baby sister_ ) had stayed and then the _world ended_ (except for how it didn’t) and that was _months ago_.

And now here she is! All five feet of her, skinnier than before and absolutely covered in dirt and really not dressed for the weather, with a man twice her height and ten times her mass who’s still waiting (and glowering, just a bit) on the back of his very large (but still not the largest she’s seen) horse.

So Sansa asks the only thing she can think of now, “Who’s this with you?”

And Arya replies as cheekily as she can manage (which is quite cheeky indeed), “Sandor Clegane. He followed me home, can I keep him?”

And suddenly Sansa Stark is having actually a rather nice day after all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theon and Sansa gossip about Sandor's bum.

Theon (fucking) Greyjoy is standing next to her, jabbing an elbow into her side every few seconds. She’d stop him, but that would mean tearing her eyes away from the proper spectacle in front of her and she’s not that stupid.

The spectacle in question is six foot eight inches of pure male muscle in jeans she’s certain are sewn on (and she would know, having worked at some low-level fashion shows back when those were a thing). Her eyes are glued to his bum. She’s not even pretending she’s looking at anything else. Theon’s not pretending he’s doing anything other than annoying her.

“Theon if you elbow me one more time I’ll have Arya snap it and then leave you at the tender mercies of Dr. Blackwater,” she threatens without shifting her gaze in the slightest. Theon’s arms drop and he carefully cups the offending elbow as though to shield it from her wrath.

“You’ve been watching him for the last ten minutes. _Staring_. Like a creeper,” he adds, unnecessarily, because she is _definitely_ being a creeper but if this glorious specimen of a man minds he hasn’t indicated (verbally or nonverbally, she’d know, she _has_ been watching rather intently).

“Look. You’ll fuck anything with tits-” he interrupts with an aggressively loud scoff “-of which you’ve had several options even _after_ the whole ‘living dead’ thing. This,” she gestures towards the absolute beast of a man, “is the first man I’ve even wanted to touch since we woke up naked in my bed.”

There’s a very loud pause from him at that. “Sans… That was two years ago.”

She nods, still staring. “I’m aware.”

“Ruined you for other men then, have I?” He asks, all cocky overconfidence that they both know he’s expecting her to pop like a balloon.

“Oh aye, that’s how I wound up waking up in _Margaery’s_ bed, naked, a year ago.” And she’s not really lying since the whole Theon-Naked-Bed incident (and no one’s really sure if they fucked or not, least of all them, but that’s besides the point) happened right on the heels of her horrific breakup with her cheating dirtball of an ex (and she definitely swore off blondes after that, thank god Theon’s a bit more ginger and Marg was more brunette) and she really didn’t want to deal with _guys_ and somehow that lead to her friend from those fashion classes she was in sort of giving her a hand (and she’s not sure if she’s bisexual or if Marg is really just that attractive or if it even matters anymore but it was a great way to deal with end of term stress).

“Well,” he replies in a suddenly high-pitched voice that she knows means he’s trying _really_ hard not to imagine _that_ , “if ever there’s a man to make you want something _manly_ again,” he vaguely gestures at the truly staggering form before them, “that’d be it.”

“You can basically feel the testosterone in the air around him, huh?” She muses. She might not have blinked for the last five minutes.

“I think I’ve grown more chest hair just standing here.”

“I’m pretty sure your voice finally dropped,” she adds with a smirk and gets another elbow to the ribs for her trouble.

“Watch your elbows, Greyjoy,” she mutters darkly and he tucks them back in lest she make good on her threat.

“So. Is your entire plan to stare or are you actually going to speak to him?”

“The castle isn’t that big, we’ll definitely talk eventually. I just want to enjoy looking before the inevitable,” she heaves out a great sigh at the end.

“What’s inevitable?” He mutters, squinting at her.

“That he’s an arse. It’s a fact. Men I find attractive are all arseholes.” She shrugs, because she’s not wrong.

Theon pauses for a moment and she can _feel_ him thinking. “That means either you think _I’m_ an arse, or that you don’t think I’m attractive.” And now he’s glaring at her.

“I threatened to have your elbow snapped, take a wild guess on that eh?” And really he can’t fault that logic and they both know it. He’s a good guy but he’s also an arse and he’d be hard pressed to find anyone who’d say he didn’t at least have arsehole tendencies.

“So you’re going to enjoy the view until his personality ruins it?” He asks, clarifying for no other reason than to make sure her fairly pessimistic plan is said aloud.

“Exactly,” she nods, still staring. Theon would’ve found it rude but he’s got to agree that it’s a great view, even if you’re not the target audience.

Silence reigns for a few more moments before the alarm on her phone goes off (nearly all its really good for since cell service isn’t really a thing anymore) and she heaves another great sigh and _finally_ blinks. “Well, that’s my break over. Back to the loom!” She slaps Theon on the bum as she passes, rolling her shoulders and getting back to work. Plenty of time to oogle Sandor Clegane another day. They are all rather stuck here after all.

* * *

“Has she got a problem with me?”

He could’ve laughed at how the scrawny shit jumped at the sound of his voice, but he didn’t. He just glowered a little harder and waited for an answer.

“Wha- Who? Sansa? A _problem_? With _you_? Nah, no way. Not at all. Why d’you ask?” His voice is getting higher and higher the longer he speaks and Sandor’s certain his balls are also climbing.

“She _stares_ ,” he says as flat as he can manage, which is still a growl.

“Aye? Your point? You’ve seen you, right? Who wouldn’t stare?”

At this point he’s certain the little shit has no sense of self preservation because _honestly_ who says that to a man his size with a face like his and doesn’t anticipate at least a bloody nose. So he’s lucky all Sandor does is growl and watch his eyes widen as he mentally reruns his words and immediately jumps back in with, “She was watching your bum!”

And that, that stops his growls for a second. 

“How d’you know?”

“Well she bloody _told me_ ,” he huffs, looking for all the world like a deflating scarecrow.

“Aye?” 

“Aye, you’re a bloody great beast and she was watching your arse. Like a creeper. Which I _told her_ so if you’ve got a problem with it take it up with her!” He throws his hands in the air and flops off to whatever work someone so stick thin could manage around here. Petting baby chickens perhaps.

And all Sandor can do is wonder what the hell alternate reality he’s fallen into where tiny she-devils drag him from one end of Westeros to the other while the living dead try and gnaw his balls off and he winds up in a bloody castle at the end of it where the girl’s got about a thousand brothers and the prettiest sister he’s ever seen in his life. And she was watching his bum.

He needs to go think about this. Gods he misses ale.

* * *

The loom’s clack-clack serves as the perfect backdrop for all the gossip she’d ever want to have with Theon (who really should be doing his actual work but has decided that Sansa’s bum-related mental breakdown is much more interesting, so he’s been handed a bag of goat’s wool and a spindle and he’s not mucking it up as much as they both thought he would).

“It’s like two bear cubs wrestling in a gunny sack,” she mutters to herself, clearly not seeing the loom in front of her.

“How’d you know what that looks like?” He asks, an eyebrow slowly raising to show his skepticism.

“Mystery Science Theater.”

“That sounds fake.”

“Bran!” She waits until a wordless shout from down the hall acknowledges her, “Mystery Science Theater 3000!”

“It’s funny!” The muffled, but intelligible reply comes.

She shoots Theon a look that’s somewhere between Ha and Duh. Her mild gloating is interrupted by the arrival of a now very clean Arya who throws herself into the armchair that’d been brought into the room years ago specifically for that purpose (Arya hates textiles but loves gossip so she compromised by being _near_ the work without actually _doing_ any. No one else gets the privilege).

“What’re you shouting about now?”

“Sansa thinks Sandor’s bum looks like two bear cubs wrestling in a gunny sack. Direct quote,” Theon mutters, staring at the wool in his hands like it’s a snake that’s about to try and tangle up his fingers and squeeze them off.

“I was also wondering how he gets those jeans on. Does he sew them on?” She glances briefly at her sister before refocusing on her work, still with that fantastic arse playing on the back of her eyelids.

“I reckon he uses lube,” Theon contributes, neither of them listen.

“No idea. Why don’t you ask him?” Arya grins at her sister, certain she will do no such thing.

“I will do no such thing!” Sansa says, sounding offended. “I want to look at him for a bit before his personality gets in the way.”

“Sansa’s convinced all men she fancies are arseholes,” Theon pipes up accurately.

“He’s not an arse. He’s a bit of a dick though.” Arya shrugs, it’s no skin off her nose if her sister starts panting after him but she’s not going to let her accidentally insult him, even though he really _is_ a dick.

“What’s the difference?” Theon asks, shooting her a confused look.

“A dick is mean to your face. An arse does things they _know_ are awful and hopes not to get caught,” she says matter-of-factly.

“Fuckin’ Harry the Arse,” Sansa and Theon say in almost perfect unison

“ _Gods_ I hope someone ate his face off,” Arya mumbles, shaking her head. “Anyways. Sandor’s not an arse, but he’s kind of a dick. Mostly he stops if you don’t run off screaming.”

“Oh, so he likes to test people. That’s so much better,” Sansa manages to roll her eyes without losing her rhythm on the loom and she catches Theon nodding vigorously in her periphery.

“Fair,” Arya shrugs, “I pretty much forced him to deal with me, so he’s not so much of a dick to me anymore. But he’s all bark.”

“Good to know. I think I’ll stick with my watching.”

“Your _creepy_ watching,” Theon inserts. “He fuckin’ came and asked me why you were staring you know! He looked like he wanted to take my head off!”

“That’s just his face,” Arya assures him.

“Fuck his face he _growled_ at me!” He protests, flailing his arms and almost ruining his work.

“I wouldn’t mind that, hard to be a dick when your mouth’s busy,” Sansa mutters, actually pausing with her shuttle halfway across the loom, actively ignoring Arya’s exaggerated gagging noises.

“And with that nonsense, I’m out!” Arya leaps up and brushes the conversation off of her shirt, stalking (because the girl has never been able to _walk_ anywhere) out of the room.

“With that revelation are you ever going to speak to him?” Theon asks, glaring at the yarn forming in his hands.

Sansa shrugs, resuming her work, “No idea. Think I’ll let him talk to me first. If the first words out of his mouth are dickish, well... “ She pauses again, thinking hard. “No I’ll probably still try to jump him. There’s a real lack of bangable men here.”

“Excuse you,” he says, mock affronted and gestures to himself.

She raises a brow. “Been there, done that, _clearly_ not that memorable.”

“Fair. Gendry?”

“Arya owns his balls whether she wants them or not. I hope she at least puts him out of his misery.”

“Uh. Blackwater?”

“No,” she says in an aggressively flat tone.

“Technically…. Jon?”

“ _He’d_ be too scared of Mum to even think about it. Also he’s still on the way from the Wall, hard to seduce someone who’s not even here.”

“Thought he got back and was just brooding in a corner,” he shrugged before standing up and stretching. “Well. I’m out. It’s clear that there’s only two men you’re likely to have access to for the foreseeable future and since I’m not bangable I might as well go find a woman who will.”

And they both know he’s just being a shit but all the same she settles her work and launches herself at him, intent on giving him a noogie (which is easier than it should be given her slightly greater height) and he makes the mistake of running and thus a chase ensues and they both feel twelve again like he’d stolen her hair ribbons and she wanted them back. She’d always caught him then too.

The run ends in the courtyard where she catches up and trips him like a cheating football player before straddling his waist and covering his face in exaggerated kisses (complete with overly-loud MWAH noises) because as a child there was nothing worse than being kissed by a girl and honestly they never really grew up.

He finally manages to get his hands between their faces and curls up like a pill bug to prevent any further cootie infections, so she stands and dusts her knees off, glancing around just in time to see the subject of her fascination staring at her a bit like she’s insane and a bit like she’s daft. She blushes at the scrutiny and then, mad at herself for blushing at all, turns and goes to find out what’s for lunch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to have them meet this chapter. I really did. They'd rather talk about his butt I guess *shrug*


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa makes sure no one in her life is touch-starved.

“Gendry!” Sansa exclaimed as she slammed at not-quite full speed into his broad back. “Gimme a piggyback,” she demanded, flinging her arms around his shoulders and jumping to wrap her legs around his waist.

Gendry, for his part, merely grunted and tucked his arms under her thighs, ever willing to do the bidding of the Stark sisters. “What’s the excuse today, Sans?” he asks with a mildly put-upon sigh that they both know is feigned. He loves the Stark pack and how they’re willing to treat everyone like family (including aggressive affection, and at least Sansa is more a tackle person because Arya is a jabber).

She thrusts her hands in front of his face and shows off the bright red marks all up and down her fingers, new calluses forming and pinpricks of blood dotting all over. “I’ve almost finished my dress and I was so distracted with it I didn’t take a break. I’ve nearly ruined my hands for the week,” she pouts next to his ear. “So, cheer me up, faithful steed!”

He rolls his eyes and chuckles, shifting quickly to hup her higher on his back so her chin is resting on top of his head before he takes off at a swift walk. “Where to, my Lady?” he asks in that overly flowery tone that Sansa loves him for and Arya once tried to stab him for (they both love it, in truth, but only Sansa says so aloud).

“Any idea where Clegane is?” Her tone is overly innocent and he groans long and low in response.

“I’ve heard about your bum obsession. I’ll not be party to it!” 

“But Gendryyyyyy~” she whines _right_ in his ear and it’s moments like these where it’s really obvious that she and Arya are sisters.

“Nope. He already made Theon piss himself just for being _near_ you when you were ogling. I don’t want to know what he’d do to the bloke that literally carries you there.”

“Theon pissed himself because he’s a coward,” she says matter-of-factly and really he can’t argue with that, the bastard’s cocky as shit but when push comes to shove he’ll duck out as quick as possible (unless his siblings are in trouble, he loses all sense of self-preservation for their sakes and that’s probably not healthy but there’s not really anything he can do about that, is there?).

“Don’t care!” he states, strolling along towards the duck pond. It’s always a good bet to distract Sansa, she can’t stop herself from cooing over them, especially if there’s babies about. And sure enough when she realizes where he’s taking her (she’d been busy poking her fingers and wincing) she squeals and he’s even more glad she’s not right next to his ear anymore.

“You’re the best Gen!” she declares, leaning over to smack an obnoxious kiss to his cheek which, like always, makes him blush. He kind of hates that he always blushes but Sansa is beautiful and gives her affections freely and it makes him feel like he’s a much nicer person than he probably is when she does something like that. 

“Yeah, I know,” he says simply, dropping himself to the grass by the pond while she’s still wrapped up around him. She’ll climb off eventually and until then it’s a good excuse for a break. No one really interferes when someone’s been hijacked by Sansa (she _pouts_ and it’s the _worst_ , makes you feel like you kicked a puppy, and maybe she’s spoiled for it but really she’s such a consistent ray of sunshine only the biggest arses rain on her parade).

He’s not sure how long they’re sat there for before she wriggles her legs loose and settles herself knelt behind him with her elbows propped on his shoulders and her chin on his head. They’re both staring out over the water, watching the ducks bob along, occasionally flipping upside-down and leaving the fluffy bottoms waggling in the air. It’s not television, but it’s entertaining enough to relax to and he can feel the tension melting from his shoulders.

“This was a good pick, Gen,” she says with warmth before giving a slightly more genuine peck to his cheek (and he blushes again, because how could he not?) and standing up to stretch out. “I think I’ll go for a run.”

“Inside or outside?” he asks, because that’s a very important distinction.

“Inside, I don’t want to bother anyone. D’you know when the next supply run’ll be?”

“I think I heard your Mum griping about sugar-” he’s cut off by her enthusiastic nodding and mutterings about bitter coffee “-with your Da so prolly sometime this week. I think they’re hoping the bakeries in town haven’t been wiped out yet. They’d have a good supply of things like that.”

Her head keeps bobbing as he speaks and he quirks a smile at her. The coffee situation has been all but untenable for her, and he knows she deeply mourns the loss of the fancy ‘there’s definitely coffee _in_ there’ drinks from the shops.

“Well, I’ll leave to you the pond then,” she pats his shoulder before spinning round and striding off, most likely to change for her run round the castle.

* * *

Sandor fought to keep from rolling his eyes as the girl left the largest of the boys by the pond. He’d been rolling his eyes at her since she showed up clinging to his back like a fucking monkey, kissing his cheeks and making him blush like a maiden.

There’s a moment of confusion when one of the ducks, inexplicably with a bright blue ribbon around its neck, leaves the pond behind and follows after her. He sees her notice it and brighten _even more_ (which should be impossible, she’s already lighting up the whole dreary castle with her smiles and laughter) before stooping to pick up the bird and cradle it to her chest. From the look on her face she’s baby-talking it. Cooing at a bloody duck. She must be daft.

Must be.

She tucks the duck under an arm in an obviously practiced motion and though he can’t hear her she’s clearly chattering away at it and it almost looks like the bloody thing is listening. He thinks maybe all these Starks are a little touched but at least this one just thinks she’s a Disney princess and not a _fucking assassin_ like the tiny one does.

His eyes flick to her arse as she turns away and he’s briefly torn between not wanting to give them a reason to boot him (ogling the eldest daughter might be a good enough reason for a mean fucker like him) and wanting to get his own back for the _absolute staring_ she’s been doing every time she thinks he’s not looking.

Which is often.

She’s gotten quite good at finding him between her chores.

He wishes he was half as good at knowing where she was so he could _bloody avoid her_ (and that’s a blatant lie but he refuses to acknowledge that even a little bit).

* * *

“Papa, what’s the ETA on Jon getting here?” Sansa asks, flopping down on the sofa in his study while rubbing some ointment Mum gave her into her still sore fingers (and she really should’ve been paying more attention, she’d very much like her dress to be done before her cousin arrives, he always told her honestly what he liked best about her outfits even if he was rather clumsy with the compliments).

Ned looked up from where he was doing inventory calculations in preparation to send the kids out on a supply run. “Last I heard was when he’d hit Last Hearth, it took them three weeks on the horses to get from the Wall to there and we estimated with the roads being how they are it’d be another month before he got here.”

“Thank you for the info dump but you didn’t actually answer my question,” she teased, flicking her eyes up and sticking her tongue out.

He shook his head and chuckled, “Aye, I didn’t. He should be here this week.”

Sansa bit down on her lip to try (and fail) to contain her squeal of excitement, it being a well-known fact in the family that, especially after he’d broken Harry’s nose, Jon was her favorite person. She and Arya had a few tiffs over that idea since Arya’d loved him best _first_ before they agreed that was dumb and they decided they could share him like mature, adult women.

It mostly works.

“I need to finish my dress!” she shouts, jumping off the sofa and all but sprinting off towards her sewing room, leaving Papa behind to chuckle quietly at her excitement.

* * *

He can’t help but grumble under his breath as the elder sister nearly knocks him off his feet in her haste to get… somewhere. She’s muttering about stitches and threads and prodding her fingertips and doesn’t seem to have even noticed the near miss collision and he can’t help but glower at her back (and arse) as she continues down the hall at speed.

He nearly shits himself when the little one pops up from _fucking nowhere_ exclaiming, “Jon’s gonna be home this week and Sansa’s going to burst a blood vessel from excitement before he gets here. Or she’s going to work her fingers off.”

“She’s been poking her fingers for the last two days. What’s she even doing?”

“Making a dress,” she replies like it’s the most obvious thing in the world (and it must be, since everyone else seems to know what the woman’s on about with her running and mumbling and overall distractedness).

“What the hell for?” He glares down the hallway she’d vanished through like that would make any of this make sense.

“Because they’re pretty?” And again, her tone says ‘why the hell else would she do something, you fucking moron?’

And, well, she’s got him there he supposes. It’s still the dumbest thing he’s ever heard, it’s the fucking apocalypse and the undead want to gnaw his bones and here’s this flightly little bird making _dresses_ because they’re _pretty_ and it’s the biggest waste of time he’s heard of since the world ended (though he has to admit the actual planet’s probably better off nowadays).

So he just grunts at her in response and turns on his heel to go find his bloody dogs. They at least make sense.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: I didn't realize until the second chapter that this fic is in the present tense.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon's home! Sandor doesn't get the hype.

It’s not so much that she’s _more excited_ that Jon’s arriving (he’d been spotted on the horizon by Rickon with a spyglass from the top of a tower he _really_ should not have been climbing) than she had been for Arya’s arrival, just that she had warning for Jon and therefore the idea of his arrival had a chance to stoke her joy like a bonfire just waiting to _explode_.

So she’s standing on the battlements (and what a wild childhood she had that _that’s_ something she’s done often) and watching the road and bouncing on the balls of her feet and it’s taking everything she’s got not to just duck out a side door and race up the road to meet him. He’d get a proper tackle off his horse if she did though and that’s a bit of a health hazard. So she’s restraining herself. 

Barely.

It’s just that it’s _Jon_ and maybe they didn’t get along best when they were little (Robb was the ever favorite because he was her _big brother_ and they were barely eighteen months apart, and then Arya came along and seemed the perfect little sister for their somber cousin, so Sansa fairly well ignored him), but then life happened and things got a little weird for a bit because he was her cousin (well, his mother was her father’s cousin, but had been raised like a sister to him, so when she passed Jon was raised like a brother to them) but also they were a boy and a girl that grew up in close proximity and hormones make for strange bedfellows.

The point is, puberty made things _weird_ for them, but then she taught him how to talk to girls and he punched Harry in the face (and broke his nose and it never set right, it’s crooked in all his profile photos and that was a sweet bit of vengeance indeed) and they settled into something closer than siblings. Because unless you’re a Targaryan you don’t practice kissing (and more or less accidentally hit second base) with your siblings.

So Jon’s her favorite _anything_ and he’d been gone up to be a park ranger the whole time she’d been back before the whole end-of-the-world-as-we-know-it thing and she wasn’t entirely sure she’d see him again except he’s _right there_ and yes he’s a bit of a smudge but she can’t help there’s no contacts anymore and she’s a touch nearsighted.

He’s almost here.

She waits until the gates start opening and runs down the stairs (almost tripping over her own feet and wouldn’t _that_ be embarrassing!) and she’s about to race right out and tackle him off his horse like she wanted to from the get-go but she’s been grabbed round her waist by Robb who uses her momentum to spin them both 360 before settling back to face the gates. But she’s still held captive in her brother’s arms and she’d like to pinch him but he knows better and trapped _her_ arms under his.

“Give him a minute Sans! The lad’s been on the road for two months!” he chuckles in her ear and he’s _right_ but he doesn’t have to _say it_.

“I got Arya just two weeks ago the same way and she’d been trekking twice as long! I’m not waiting ‘til after he’s bathed to hug him!” And they both know that’s the case.

“Aye, aye, but wouldn’t it be a shame for him to get all the way home only to crack his head open because his _favorite cousin_ couldn’t keep her hands to herself?” He squeezes his arms around her partly in emphasis and partly to stop her efforts to wriggle free. “Least wait until he’s off the bloody horse Sans.”

“But Arya’ll get to him first then!” she whines and pouts and in general does everything a younger sister can possibly do to emotionally blackmail a brother without _actually_ resorting to blackmail.

But Robb remains firm in both his convictions and his grip and the only reason Sansa _is_ the one to hug Jon first (after he’s dismounted, for everyone’s sakes) is that Gendry’d grabbed Arya in the same way Robb had Sansa and he wasn’t fool enough to let her go first.

And it’s like opening the stalls at the races when Robb does finally release his sister, she almost shoves him to the ground as she launches herself at Jon, who she _does_ tackle to the ground looking nothing so much as like an overly excited puppy. The moment he hits the dirt Gendry unleashes Arya who joins in on the duo and then it’s a free for all as the other siblings appear from the surrounding area. Even Bran gets in on the pile, though he’s mindful of his crutches.

It’s not until Jon starts wheezing from the weight of family on top of him that they start heaving each other off and into the mud. He winds up sprawled with each of the sisters half on him, both grinning like maniacs and really that’s how he knows he’s home.

At long last Robb dusts his own self off and starts offering hands around to get everyone back on their feet (Bran needs it, the rest use it to try and yank him back down) and everyone starts asking about his trip all at once except there’s, again, a very large man who’s followed a lost family member home.

This one’s ginger, though.

* * *

His name’s Tormund and he’s got friends and family of his own camped up the road, waiting to see if their group (Free Folk, they call themselves. Jon calls them ‘bloody Wildlings’) will be welcomed in the walls of Winterfell. They’ve come a long way hoping for it.

Sansa’s in favor of at least meeting them, they have plenty of room and basic resources are plentiful (she’s leery of sharing her luxuries, but given that at the minute those luxuries are the non-existent supply of sugar, it’s a bit moot) so as long as they’re not absolute nutters (which, given how Tormund _is_ might be the case) she’s for them joining up.

Robb’s a little more reserved but that’s just how he is when it comes to strangers these days and that’s fair.

It really comes to Mum and Papa on whether they’ll be allowed, but both agree they get a chance to make their case. And it’s a pretty basic one. They’d been (illegally) camping in the Haunted Forest and Jon and the rest of the Night’s Watch Rangers had been trying to get their group of pseudo-hippies to move along. It hadn’t _worked_ but they’d _tried_. Right up until the Watch started getting reports of dead men walking and Jon even had a terrifying (and damaging) incident where one of his Rangers died and _came back_ and the only thing Jon could think to do was shove him in the campfire which worked **great** until the fucker grabbed his arm and set _him_ on fire too!

So they got in touch with the Free Folk who had also noticed something fucky going on with the dead (like them not staying that way) and they all started heading down to Winterfell and if things went well there’d be a relay message back via Last Hearth to try and get more of the Watch down here as well.

And it’s a whole logistics nightmare that gives Sansa a headache to think about, so she doesn’t. She goes and finds that _very_ pretty dress she’s been working so hard on, adds a few finishing touches, and slips it on. It fits perfectly. The sleeves hit right in the middle of her forearm and are delightfully floaty, the neckline curves low across her sternum but it’s not scandalous, the waist nips in tight across her bellybutton leaving the top and the bottom to poof out a bit till it cuts off just above her knees. It’s so _light_ and airy and _yes_ winter is coming and she won’t get to wear it often before then but! 

It’s just so _pretty_ and it makes her feel _lovely_ with the pale blue color that makes her skin look a healthy pink (instead of the slightly transparent color she usually feels), and the embroidery (that took MUCH too long but was totally worth it) along the hemline and neckline and sleeves is a bright white series of snowflakes and flurries.

It’s a lovely dress and she looks very pretty in it, is what Jon says. Well, it’s what he _means_ because what he actually _says_ is, “I like the snow bits” but that’s Jon all over isn’t it? He’s smiling in that way she knows means he thinks she’s beautiful and that just about makes the whole thing worth it.

* * *

If Sandor thought he couldn’t be more irritated by the little bird’s fluttering and chirping before, he was wrong. He was _so_ wrong. Now that the ever glorious Cousin Jon (who is probably the prettiest lad he’s ever seen north of the Neck) has returned from his trek from the Wall (with bloody Wildlings in tow) it’s all any of them can talk about.

But the little bird is the _worst_ , within an hour of his return, just about the moment the boy’s got his face cleaned off and changed into some of the oldest boy’s spare clothes she shows up in _this dress_. It’s all light and looks like she wrapped herself in a bloody snow cloud (because, YES, he DID get close enough to see the delicate embroidery on all the edges and it’s gorgeous but he’s not going to say that now is he?) and she’s got her hair down for the first time he’s seen and his fingers twitch for want to touch the burnished copper of it.

So she’s in _this dress_ and chirping at him asking him how he likes it and the poor boy looks bloody lost as he mumbles something about liking the ‘snow bits’ like he’s lost all his brains somewhere up the Kingsroad. Doesn’t even mention how the color makes her look like she’s glowing. Daft.

And she takes that half-arsed compliment and gives him a kiss on the cheek (and it looks like that’s far from the first time she’s done that but he still blushes like a fucking maiden and what is with the boys and getting kissed by her and turning as red as her hair?) and asks how his ride was like he’d been out for a day trip.

He can’t help it, when he hears her ask, he snorts. Loud. Loud enough for her to hear. So she pauses her chirping (but still holding his hands in hers like she’s worried the boy’ll vanish if she’s not touching him), and turns to look at Sandor. One eyebrow slowly climbing up her forehead but her face otherwise set in polite disinterest.

“Sorry?” she offers, sounding more offended than apologetic.

He snorts again then gestures to the boy, “Daft question. ‘How’s your ride been?’” he mocks, tilting his head. “Bloody hard it was, just look at him. He looks exhausted. No one needs your chirping and preening when they’ve just got in from two months on the road.”

He’s growling and snapping and he knows it and he’s waiting for her to puff up her feathers and chirp a little louder, call the whole flock down to peck at him for being rude. But she doesn’t, and that’s the moment Sandor Clegane realizes he’s grossly miscalculated exactly who Sansa Stark really is.

* * *

“Ah, Arya did say you were a dick.” She nods once at Clegane before turning back to Jon and pulling him in for a tight hug. “Go get some of Mum’s cooking, I know she was starting it whilst we were talking. Must have at least a leftovers sandwich for you.” She gives him a little shove towards the kitchen and turns back to the delightfully large but disappointingly dickish man she’d just called a dick (to his face, because she’d never say something behind someone’s back she wasn’t prepared to also say to their face).

And she can sort of understand where he’s coming from, it must look very self-centered, but she and Jon know each other. He knows the ‘snow bits’ are because she was thinking of him and trying to channel her worry for him (and they’re very fancy so it’s clear she’s been worrying a lot), and she knows he needs to be distracted from the _whole ordeal_. And she’s always been a good distraction. It’s sort of her thing.

She eyes him from his toes to his hair, gaze slowly slipping upwards before dropping back down to look him right in his pretty grey eyes. “Problem, Clegane?”

* * *

It’s at this moment he thinks he might be in trouble. Not with, say, the family or his position here or anything (vague as it is) but specifically with the little bird. And that’s not something he expected at all. He crosses his arms over his chest (and he _knows_ this is a defensive stance while she’s just stood there with her off hand on her hip and her head cocked to the side like she hasn’t a bloody care) and stares back at her. 

He tries not to blink but she’s clearly had more practice at it and he can’t help but glance to the side to get a reprieve from her _violently_ blue eyes. “Aye, problem,” he finally growls out. “With you flitting about and perching round wherever I’m working and chirping at all the lads and asking if you look _pretty_. Aye, I’ve a problem.”

She nods as she listens and that’s when he _knows_ he’s in trouble because everything coming out his mouth is pure dickery and the woman’s nodding like she agrees and he’s not an idiot, he’s spoken to women before, he knows that means he’s fucked. 

“Sounds like you really _do_ have a problem if me just being _near_ you is bothering you. You do realize this is the first time you’ve actually spoken to me, aye? And you’re saying that how I am about other people is a problem for _you_?” She pops one extremely judgemental eyebrow.

And he’s never quite known when to give up a bone so he keeps on the track, “Aye! You’re bloody distracting!” he finally snaps.

And he’s not expecting the somewhat triumphant grin he gets in response but there it is on her face leaving him more confused than ever, at least until she says (quite sincerely), “Thank you” and _now_ he’s more confused than ever and he doesn’t think anyone’s going to explain that one to him any time soon.

He’s right, he gets no explanation, just the little bird chirping out what for all the world sounds like a genuinely curious (and not fishing) “Do _you_ think I’m pretty?”

He’d swear she was batting her lashes at him but she’s still barely blinking and is that something they _train_ these Starklings in because they all seem to have this skill. It’s all he can do not to choke on his tongue before he barks out an, “Aye” because he’s not a bloody liar and he can’t think of how to extract himself from this situation while those _bloody blue eyes_ are staring at him.

She smiles quite softly at him in response, utters another very sincere sounding “Thank you” and spins (which does very interesting things that floaty skirt and how high it goes up her thighs) to follow her cousin to the kitchen.

And Sandor thinks he’s probably quite fucked now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look I don't-
> 
> I'm not quite sure what happened while I was working it out. Sansa and Jon's relationship, that is.
> 
> I feel like in an au of this au, it's Jonsa. And I'm really not sure how it happened? I didn't _intend_ them to be weirdly close but. Here we are. And we all just have to deal with that now, so.
> 
> But hey look our ACTUAL PAIRING finally interacted! And Clegane was a dick! And Sansa clearly still likes him anyways! That's... SanSan in a nutshell, innit :)
> 
> EDIT: Worth mentioning! This is PEAK JONSA for the fic! They're not the ship here, I was just writing and _shit happened_ for the backstory and IDK man. I don't _plan things_ as a writer, I set up a row of scenes (usually small ones) that I have a vague idea of, and then just... sit down and type until they happen.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's finally zombies, kinda!

Tormund and the Free Folk that came with him are on probation. That is, if they don’t fuck up too badly they and theirs are welcome to stay as long as they wish, but they’re going on the first supply run they’re present for. 

So the Starklings and the Free Folk find themselves in the den, Sansa’s sharing a couch with the massive ginger, her feet propped in Tormund’s lap with her knitting in her own (she’s working on a sweater for Lady now that she’s figured out how to shape it for a duck). Robb is lounging in an overstuffed armchair like it’s a throne while Arya is sprawled sideways across the matching one. Bran’s at the coffee table with maps and notes spread out in front of him. Jon’s in the chair at the tiny table to the side of the room while Ygritte, Tormund’s cousin, is sitting on the table itself (she thinks the other redhead fancies her cousin, she’s been giving him appreciative looks since they got here). Theon has been sent to retrieve snacks, no one’s sure if he’s going to be back or not.

“Mum says we need staples,” Robb starts, flipping through some of Bran’s notes. “She reckons the bakeries in town’ll do for, well, baking stuff. Flour, sugar, that shit.”

“That’s a lot of weight to bring back,” Jon interjects, brow furrowing.

Arya nods with absentminded enthusiasm. “We need to bring some big guys along. Tor, you’re gonna be a pack mule!” She shoots him a wide grin and then continues, “We should drag Clegane along too, he can carry, like, his own bodyweight no problem.”

“Someone should probably get him so he actually knows what to do, then,” Bran pipes up, quirking a brow at Arya who groans and launches herself off the chair and out the room and off to find the very large man. All’s quiet for a few minutes but he must not’ve been far because she comes back quick with him following looking like she’d told him to ‘heel’.

He glances around the room and, not seeing any seating options left, all but slams his back against a wall so he can watch everyone with his broody glower (not that Sansa’s watching, she’s knitting a sweater for her Lady).

“So Tormund and Clegane are the pack mules, that means that they get the structural backpacks and they’re the first priority for loading,” Robb explains for the new arrivals, “Arya, Rickon, and Jon are scavengers. They’re going to do the actual looting and can fill up their bags _after_ the mules are loaded. Ygritte and I will be watching for danger, under no circumstances do we start looting or loading.”

“And what about the girl kissed by fire?” Tormund asks, patting Sansa’s shin.

“I,” Sansa starts, folding her knitting in her lap so she can make eye contact with the three new to their system, “am the distraction.” And really she can’t help herself when she cuts a glance to Sandor and smirks at his mildly baffled look.

“The fuck’s that mean?” he finally growls out.

“Sansa’s the fastest person here,” Arya starts like she’s stating the blindingly obvious, “so she goes into the area, makes a lot of noise, gets all the attention she possibly can from as many of those dead fucks as are there, and then she books it!”

Robb nods, looking proud. Jon looks distressed and maybe a little sick. Tormund and Ygritte look impressed. Sandor looks like he’s been hit in the back of the head with a sledgehammer (Sansa can’t quite stifle her giggle).

Bran pulls up the map of the town they’ve been using and starts pointing out the locations they’re hitting, the order they’re hitting them in, and what items are priority at each location. Sansa leans over enough to see where her routes are marked so she knows where to run along and it all looks nice and clean.

It should be a good run.

* * *

He’s watching her as she finishes tightening thick leather bracers around her delicate forearms. They’re at the gates and she’s got the least amount on her. The mules (fucking mules!) have hiking backpacks and thick riding leathers. He feels like a cross between a cargo ship and a tank. The scavengers are dressed lighter in denim or wool jackets, and the guards have leather jackets and helmets. Everyone’s got some kind of weapon, all melee, most bladed (because a sword doesn’t run out of ammo).

Everyone except the little bird.

Who is also basically naked (okay she’s wearing full sleeves and leggings but the only thing between her and teeth is the hide she’s got wrapped around her arms and is that _really_ the best idea?).

But everyone is treating this like it’s totally normal. Like there’s nothing wrong with the pretty little bird running through town, blasting an air horn (with _fucking bells on_ ), unarmored and _un-fucking-armed_. And he’s tried to talk to the others about this, but they’re convinced that she’s _perfectly safe_!

Daft. All of them. Buggering insane, too.

Especially the little bird.

She’s just standing there, bouncing on her toes and swinging her arms, like she’s about to go for a nice jog in the park!

Robb (bloody fool) calls out to start their run to town (‘wolf trot’ the kids call it, and yeah it’s a good speed to eat up the distance without tiring everyone out but that’s a dumb fucking name).

The pack settles into a rhythm quickly and the ground is eaten up by their feet and at some apparently unspoken signal Sansa just…

She just fucking vanishes.

He can see the edge of town up the road, maybe ten more minutes at this pace, and she’d been right up front for the whole run and then she’s suddenly _gone_ but _apparently_ that’s not a reason to panic because _no one bloody reacts_.

And just as they hit the edge of town he can hear that bloody air horn go off what sounds like a mile into town, so alright she’s not totally out of shape then but still! There’s fucking zombies out there!

And if everything goes to plan he won’t even see her again until they’re ready to leave.

* * *

She’s having fun.

She knows she really shouldn’t be, it’s the apocalypse and she’s being chased by ten- no, thirteen, undead former townies. But they’re just… not as fast as she is.

It feels a bit like when she’d taunt Arya’s cat Nymeria with a laser pointer, she knows they’re never going to catch her but she just can’t help taunting them with the hope of it. Every once in a while she slows enough they can _almost_ brush her if they could really properly lunge, but that’s just to keep them interested until she can reach one of her escape routes.

Because she’s not stupid. She’s not going to just run around for hours with a zombie horde following her the entire time. She _could_ (and did, in the early days, before realizing that was _dumb_ ) but it’s much better to lead them away from the scavenging spots and to-

And there it is! A fire escape and a roof she knows well these days. It’s a simple matter to jump and catch the steel mesh flooring and haul herself up. She takes the time that they’re shuffling into the alley to remove all the bits of noise-maker she’s got on her person and tuck them (quietly) away.

Distraction, done. Now to the secondary aspect that had started mostly on accident after a really rather spectacular escape she’d made involving some roof-jumping and a twenty-foot vertical landing (and maybe she tweaked her ankle doing it but she still made it home so it’s _fine_ ). Time to play lookout!

She may be nearsighted, but it’s not hard to tell a zombie from an actual living person at a distance. They just don’t move right.

So she flips herself up the rest of the fire escape and up onto the roof (and _thank you Arya_ for dragging her along on her crazy parkour/free-running sprints around King’s Landing and she may not be as good as her little sister at it but she’s good _enough_ and faster regardless) and starts working her way back towards where the others are supposed to be.

And there they all are, working hard at stripping whatever they can from the defunct shops and storefronts. She’s a little sad about it, there’s a lot of memories in this town and it’s all turning to dust in front of her, but her family’s all together again and safe and _together_ and they’ve got some new friends (she can’t help but eye the lumbering forms of Tormund and Clegane) and things are… pretty darn good, all things considered.

* * *

The whole ordeal was over quicker than he’d thought it would be, just him and the little wolf bitch had taken two or three times as long to get half as much stuff and had to kill while doing it. These kids have it down to a science, it seems (and he really should’ve guessed based on the assigned roles and everything but being told everyone knows what they’re doing and them _actually doing it_ are very different things) and he’s fully loaded before he even notices.

As soon as his bag is strapped shut for the last time the little bird just _drops from the fucking sky_ (alright, probably the nearest rooftop), grinning like a loon and chirping on about how this group was faster than the last but she lost them down so-and-such street and it only took thirty minutes before she was back. And basically she nearly gives him a heart attack. 

Only the little one should be able to pop in and out like that. She’s too bloody vibrant to be able to vanish, it’s unnatural.

The trip back is as uneventful as the trip out and everyone is quiet again as they go. It’s not until the gates are shut that Sansa whirls around to face the group and, with a grin that borders of the manic, demands, “Where is my sugar?”

And suddenly every hand is pointing at him (and the little one looks particularly smug about it so he feels like he’s been set up a bit here).

She looks at him with her big blue eyes wide and pleading and he grumbles but drops to his knees and peels the backpack off and pulls out a sack of standard issue granulated sugar and it really shouldn’t be that big of a deal but apparently it is because the little bird swoops down and, while snatching the bag from him, plants a kiss on his scarred cheek.

She runs off towards the kitchen before he can say anything which is probably for the best because he can feel his good cheek _bloody blushing_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's not quite as silly as the others mostly because I'm very serious about logistics? And most zombie fiction has people acting like dummies, okay, it's not hard to outwit something with almost no brain activity. Be a little sensible and stick to the plan.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Does_ Sandor like pies? The world may never know.

Watching Clegane and Sansa dance around each other was ridiculous. Entertaining as fuck, but ridiculous.

At least Sansa had the good grace to be blatantly obvious in what she was doing, especially after the Sugar Kiss (which Arya found herself quite proud of, having ensured his pack contained almost nothing but the sugar Sansa had been whinging about since she got home). She’d hardly gone a day without stopping in her tracks to admire his physique and _everyone_ knew it, except for, _apparently_ , Clegane.

“The squid said she was looking at my arse,” he grumbled, glaring at the clouds like they’d personally offended him. “That was weeks ago. No one’s arse is that interesting.”

Nevermind he was still sneaking peeks at her sister’s rear, Clegane was a man ruled by double-standards it seemed.

“You’ve been watching her’s almost as much,” she said dryly, happy to call him out on his bullshit.

His only response was a grunt and a deepening of his scowl.

“Maybe try talking to her without basically saying she’s too pretty to walk amongst mortals,” she added with a shit-eating grin. That wasn’t even close to what he’d said but by the gods if that wasn’t the gist of it! And before he could protest, “Also maybe try not to imply she’s incompetent?”

“The hell did I do that?” He was properly growling now, not his angry growl but his confused growl. He had a lot of growls, it was a bit of an art to differentiate them but she’d had months of practice.

“You went round to _everyone_ trying to get her off the run. Didn’t even ask if she knew what she was doing or had any ability, which she does, and I could’ve _told you so_ but _no_ , Sandor Clegane knows best, all the time!” She threw her hands in the air, recalling _many_ times on the road she’d had to openly defy him to prove she wasn’t some fragile child (despite the fact that SHE was the one who knew where they were going and how to get there and all the other stuff she was good at).

He couldn’t even argue with that, just glaring harder still. 

She spun towards him, finally, and jabbed him in the chest (or, upper abdomen, considering he was freakishly tall), “Don’t be a dick to my sister just because she’s pretty, or I’ll geld you in your sleep.”

* * *

He watched the little wolf bitch stalk away, absentmindedly rubbing where she’d poked him (it hadn’t hurt but she did have weirdly sharp fingertips). He had few doubts she’d make good on her threat, but he was confused by the context. 

Clearly the little bird was too flighty and delicate to be going out and doing all those dangerous things. She was precious but he’d never seen her focus on a task for longer than it took for something shiny (or a boy) to cross her vision, then she was always perked up and chattering away and _clearly_ distracted. How she managed to avoid the zombies so far was nothing short of a miracle, he was certain.

The moment he’d seen her, running full tilt and dragging the little wolf out of the saddle, he’d known there was no place for her with the world being how it was. _Too pretty_ was an understatement. She was gorgeous, even with those filthy wellies and her bright hair tucked back in a plain braid. 

And then the day with the dress, he groaned remembering. Nothing that fine could last long in this world, especially if it went outside these safe walls. The little bird just had no idea what was really out there, he was sure of it. It was the only thing that made sense given how bloody bright and cheerful she was all the time.

He’d just have to try and make her understand.

* * *

Today was a _great_ day, Sansa had decided the moment she awoke.

The sun was shining (the solar cells on the roof were charging), there was a breeze (the smells from the farm yard were blowing away), Theon’s morning chores were his again (she got to sleep in until breakfast), her family was home (she got to hug Jon and Arya as she came into the kitchen), there was sugar for her coffee (for many many days to come), _and_ she’d spoken with her parents and gotten permission to bake some sweets for everyone!

She hadn’t been able to bake since before the apocalypse!

Today, the moment breakfast was cleared away, the kitchen was _all hers_. She had Plans. Proper ones with pages from her favorite cookbooks set aside and some of her own recipes on note cards set with them. She might try and wrangle Theon into dish duty (he was always willing to work for access to licking mixing bowls, no matter how unhealthy it was), but this was going to be her kingdom for the day.

The whole day (up until Mum came back in and shooed her to the side so she could start the simple stew she’d planned knowing the kitchen would be off limits most of the day) was spent in a flurry of flour with sprinkles of sugar and spice and zest and every fruit on hand that was about to go off. There were mixed berry hand pies, two crusty apple pies, little lemon cakes with slices in the bottom, orange tarts with candied peel, and two massive sheet cakes (one chocolate, one yellow, both with rich, creamy frosting).

All in all it was a fantastic showing!

As soon as the hand pies had cooled she gathered them up in a basket (that she’d made herself, weaving was a very relaxing art in all its forms) and began the trip round the grounds to make sure everyone got one (Theon gave her a sloppy kiss in exchange, Arya snatched one before she’d even actually SEEN her, Rickon made her toss his like a ball and she prayed it wouldn’t land in the dirt), saving Sandor for last so she had time to properly express her joy at his efforts.

* * *

He’d just climbed down from inspecting the roof of the stables, Ned Stark having asked him to take a look and ensure it was ready for the change of seasons. “Winter is coming,” he’d said with a seriousness that Sandor felt was a little overblown all things considered. Winter couldn’t be _that_ much worse than it was in King’s Landing, right? (Right?)

So he’d just landed back on his feet when _out of nowhere_ like only a Stark could do, apparently, the little bird appeared. In another pretty dress and now with a pretty little basket on her arm, her hair in a messy braid that she’d obviously not redone since this morning, and a smudge of flour on one high cheekbone.

She was grinning at him and pulling the basket around to dig into it, immediately beginning to chirp away about how happy she was that they’d found so much sugar and that she’d spent the day, of all bloody things, baking! And she’d come round to everyone to give them each a little pie and now it was his turn!

He looked at the pie (and it was a normal size hand pie so it was a little large in her delicate hands but looked a little small compared to his), and at her face (expectant, excited), and back to the pie.

He took it, careful not to touch anything but the crust, and eyed her. She was waiting for something. He wasn’t sure what. So he glowered, and then glowered harder when her cheerful expression dropped slightly.

“Do you not like berries? Or pie?” she asked, bright eyes flicking from the pie to his face and back a few times like she was trying to work out a puzzle.

“Do you not know that there’s more important things going on than bloody sweets, girl?” he growled in response.

She nodded slowly, like she was trying to work out how the two things were related at all. Daft little bird.

“Sure, there’s lots of important things going on, but… that’s not what I asked? Do- Would you rather have a cake or a tart? It’s only, I always make the hand pies and bring them round to the family when I bake, so I thought…” she trailed off, all excitement gone from her expression.

Before he knew what he was doing (let alone properly addressing _why_ ) he’d started in on a rant about how he, everyone here, didn’t have time for _pretty_ or _sweet_ or _nice_ things, there was a bloody apocalypse on and as her Da kept (ominously) reminding them all _winter is coming_ , so why was she wasting time and effort and supplies on something so trivial?

And when he finally shut his fucking trap he realized maybe he should’ve just said ‘thanks for the pie’ and shuffled on because…

She didn’t look like she was going to cry. And she didn’t look angry. She didn’t even look disappointed.

She looked like he’d just proven her right.

So she nodded at him, murmured a _disturbingly_ sincere, “I hope you like the pie,” and then turned and left him standing there like the absolute cunt he was.

* * *

Today fucking sucked, Sansa decided as she tucked herself in to sleep. She’d never so badly wanted to be wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I knew his hair-pulling blowout about her (apparent) naivety would be a direct result of pie, the rest of this chapter was a surprise to me too!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa's dramatic backstory revealed!

The hot springs in the Godswood were off limits to anyone who wasn’t family. Always had been. There were other springs that were available for visitors and others still that were more private but open for long term workers.

But the Godswood was the family’s space, had been for more than ten thousand years (Winterfell was a _very old_ castle after all), and her bloodline was unbroken from the first Kings of Winter. This was a sacred space. Safe. Always safe.

So it was that she found herself in the most gentle, comforting place in her home, to think.

Resting in the pools, her body drifting in the water while her mind drifted through the past. 

After what he’d said to her yesterday she knew she needed to think about it. To really confront what she’d been hiding from since the apocalypse happened. 

That Day.

Not the day the dead rose again. Not the day she first killed one. Not even the day she first killed a living breathing human.

The day Papa got shot. 

He and her and Robb, out of the castle for the first time now that the news had just… stopped broadcasting. The radio, Papa’s pet project (he could only talk to the nearest castles but it was better than nothing), people said that there were more dead than living walking about. So they three decided to go out and see for themselves. See if it was possible that things weren’t _quite_ that bad. 

Of course, they were worse.

All of Wintertown seemed either desolate or overrun. The truck was alternating between crunching over desiccated corpses and running down walking ones.

Robb was sick out a window.

Papa lit his first cigarette in months.

Sansa cried.

And then the shooting started.

It was chaos. The undead around the truck started dropping, Papa slammed the brakes, Robb ducked down, and Sansa glanced about trying to find the source.

A group, armed with all manner of guns and bats and long knives, strolled down the street with an air of casualness that screamed Danger.

She recognized the one in the lead, with a rifle he looked to barely know how to hold. He’d been her highschool sweetheart right up until he’d slapped her across the face for disagreeing with him.

Looking back, she wishes she’d screamed at Papa to turn the truck around, never mind the guns his goons had already aimed at them. Turn around and leave, or step on the gas and run them all down. Anything but what happened.

Because with the dead killed again and a group who seemed to know what they were doing Papa stepped out of the truck and tried to talk with them. Find out what they knew of the threat. Find out if there were other survivors and where were they and did anyone need help?

And Sansa ( _stupid, stupid girl_ , she thinks now) got out of the truck because Papa didn’t really _know_ Joffrey or his ‘friends’ and she needed to _tell him_ , quietly.

And then Joffrey recognized her (five years on from when they’d dated last and she’d done everything to avoid him since).

And she saw the look. That Look. The same one he had, that wicked gleam that came before his hand impacted her face and shattered all illusions she had about the kind of boy he was.

And his friend, a fat one with a heavy looking handgun, shot her Papa in the thigh.

So she did the only thing she could think of and turned and _ran_.

Robb was still in the truck and if he had any smarts left in him he’d damn well _stay_ there until it was clear and he could get Papa home safe where Mum would be able to patch him up and everything would be _fine_.

Because she was _fast_ , always had been. And they were following her, because Joffrey had always wanted her, right up until he had her, and when he lost her it was clear he’d wanted her _back_ and what better time to just go for it than when deadly force was socially acceptable (given that society was mostly in various states of dead at the moment).

So she ducked down alleys and up around building and crossed roofs and tried her damndest to keep them on her tail without ever giving them a clear shot (and they _did_ shoot but Joff screamed that he wanted her alive and _pretty_ so that stopped fairly quick).

And when she finally lost them, miles into town, and she finally got back to where the truck had been she was torn between laughter and tears when she saw it was gone, along with Papa, only a fresh pool of blood to show he’d been there at all.

She’d not been the only one to see if Ned Stark lived or not, though. And they were slower than her but they’d taken the direct route.

And she stared down the barrel of the longarm Joff could just lift and barely aim, but still held on her all the same.

And she saw the horde behind the group, too busy staring at the spectacle of the two of them.

And she kept her eyes on the gun.

And she said _nothing_.

And the screaming started. 

The shooting.

But they’d spent so much ammo already and clearly weren’t half as prepared as they thought they were, nor as strong.

Because they were overrun in a few moments.

And she saw the light in his eyes go out as one of the dead clawed at his throat.

And she _ran_.

* * *

“... she shows up three days after they left, covered in dirt and scratches, skinned elbows and knees and tears all down her face. She told us what happened the first day, never said a word ‘bout the rest, and then never said a thing about any of it again. And we didn’t ask her to.”

The scarecrow’s giving him a hard eye, he didn’t know the squid-spined boy had it in him to be this firm but here it is. Apparently there’s nothing these folks won’t do for Sansa Stark.

“And you still let her go out?” he finally grunts, because he’d expect her to want to stay safe in her castle, like the princess she is, after an encounter like that.

“Mate,” Theon says with exaggerated flatness, “y’don’t _let_ a woman do anything. Y’support her and make sure she’s safe doing it.”

Now the squid’s looking at him like he’s stupid and… well maybe he is. Certainly he should’ve learned this lesson from the little wolf bitch but the sisters are as different as the sun and the moon so maybe things didn’t apply the same.

Apparently they did.

“Now,” the little shit claps his hands with a massive grin, “You’ve upset my very best friend in the whole world and, unluckily for you, everyone round here likes her better than you! Which means you’re stuck with me for company until she decides to forgive you.”

“Why the fuck would you _want_ to talk to me if I’ve pissed off the little bird?”

“Because,” his grin grows and that’s bloody creepy looking now, “I think the worst thing I could possibly do to you is talk to you.”

The worst part is he’s not wrong.

* * *

“You sure you don’t want me to geld him? I already threatened to,” Arya asks, again, from her perch on the counter while Sansa is busy butchering the rabbits Arya’d brought in from the Wolfswood.

“You said you’d do it if he was a dick because I’m pretty,” which is possibly the nicest thing Arya’s ever said to or about her, “and he wasn’t. He was a dick because he thinks I’m naive. Like just because I’m cheerful I have no understanding of what’s going on in the world. He _thinks_ I’m a total airhead!” She slams the butcher knife across the rabbit’s neck to separate the skull from the body.

“It’s a really unfortunate stereotype that happy people are dumb and cynical people are smart,” Arya agrees, picking up the meaty head and working the jaw to move it in time with her speech, “So sad.”

“That’s creepy,” Sansa mumbles, looking away from her sister’s antics and focusing on separating the limbs from the torso.

“Little bit,” she agrees, still treating it like a puppet. “Anyhow. I told you he was a dick.”

“And I told you, all men I fancy are arses. I just,” she sighs and sets down the knife and just barely stops herself from putting her face in her (bloody) hands, “I really really wanted to be wrong, y’know? Just once.”

Arya grunts in acknowledgement of how utterly lame the whole situation is and in sympathy for the fact that her sister _really does_ have the worst taste in men.

Sansa’s about to say something (the words fly out of her brain the moment the door opens) when the man of the hour himself steps (with surprising caution) into the kitchen. He stops just inside the doorway when she glares at him, staring pointedly down at his dirty shoes. 

“What do you need?” she asks, very specifically only interested in his needs, because she’s not going to be nice and ask about his wants after he threw that whole concept back in her face the other day.

He won’t quite look at her, focusing instead on Arya’s slightly macabre antics with the (still meaty) rabbit skull. “Ah, s’wondering if you needed... “ he shrugs, almost more of a roll of his shoulders, “anything?” His voice goes funny at the end like he didn’t mean it to be a question but it turned into one anyways.

She looks him up and down and after a long silence he finally meets her eyes and she makes sure she’s got his attention when she says, “No thank you.” And then she turns back to the rabbits to finish her work there.

He stands in the doorway for a few more moments, mumbles an ‘alright then’, then leaves.

“Oh. You’re going to make him beg then?” Arya asks, gaze switching rapidly from the now closed door to Sansa and back again.

“I’m damn well going to try,” Sansa murmurs in response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hell hath no fury and all that.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reconciliation by moonlight, aka Oh no more tragic backstory.

The duck has a sweater (it matches the ribbon on its neck).

He knew this because, ever since he put his giant fucking foot in his stupid fucking mouth, the duck had been following the little bird even more often than before. He swore it gave him the stink-eye when he turned to watch them pass. Evil little duck.

The girl has been _just_ as polite to him as ever, but had stopped coming by just to watch him (she does still pause and cast her gaze over his body if she is passing by, but it’s clear it was always incidental to whatever she was actually doing). Their interactions, few to start with, were somehow cold now, and her words were fewer and farther between and almost entirely empty courtesies.

It was infuriating.

(He has no one to blame but himself.)

And true to what the squid had said, _everyone did like her better_ , so his only company beyond necessity was the boy-scarecrow himself.

It was frustrating how much he was growing to like the scrawny shit.

Barely a week after the cold-shoulder had begun, he cracks. “What can I do to make it up to her?”

The startled look on Theon’s face was _almost_ worth the shot to his pride in and of itself. He hadn’t started a single one of their conversations after that very first one.

“Dunno mate, usually when she ices someone out they fuck off. Cuz, y’know, they’re not trapped in a castle during an apocalypse an all. This is new territory for everyone.” The useless fucker just shrugs at him. “Maybe show her you _are_ capable of appreciating the things she does? Cuz, y’know, that was a shit thing to do. She works just as hard as everyone else, it just looks easier.”

He grunted, considering.

* * *

“I feel like a super spy double-agent,” Theon says with a smirk as he fills her in on his latest prodding of Clegane.

Sansa rolls her eyes, focusing on the steady beat of the loom while Theon, remarkably, won his fight with the wool to spin it (he was actually getting quite good at it, thanks to the number of debriefs she’d run him through in the last week).

“I’m sure he knows you’re telling me everything, he’s not stupid,” she mumbles.

“Clearly he’s not too smart either if he can’t figure out the best way to make it up to you is to _apologize_ ,” he retorts, waving the spindle about and almost sticking himself in the eye in the process.

She pauses her work and casts him a considering glance. “I hadn’t really considered that.”

“What? That he’s socially dumb as a rock or that he should just nut up and say ‘sorry’?”

“Uhm,” she looks a bit abashed now, “both, actually?”

Now it’s his turn to stop his work as he shoots her a very sympathetic look because they both know that people who are dicks to _Sweet Sansa_ very rarely apologize for it. Little wonder the thought never crossed her mind. She’s not sure she’d know what to do if he _did_ own to his shitty behaviour (instead of what he tried, which was to pretend he hadn’t been shitty).

They share a bitter smile before resuming their work.

* * *

It’s late, the stars are out (and oh, can she see them so much more _clearly_ now), and it’s only a little nippy on top of the castle. Soon it’ll be too cold, but a night like this, where it’s cool and clear and the moon is so full it almost seems like a spotlight shining down, and she thinks maybe she can hear Rickon in the Wolfswood (she can definitely hear howling, it’s just whether or not her wild brother is joining in the chorus). 

This was exactly the kind of night she missed most in King’s Landing. Always too muggy with the salt air off the ocean, and the low hanging pollution clouds, and the lights that kept the streets the same brightness day and night.

Proper dark. Proper cool. Proper clear.

This was the feeling of being Home.

So of course it figures that someone else stumbles upon her and her quiet embrace of the night. And it’s not like she wants it all to herself, but a few moments of solitude outside of her bedroom would’ve been nice.

And it figures that the person to come across her is Sandor.

She’s still giving him as much of a brush off as she can manage (look, his body is fantastic and she’s not going to deprive herself of that) but here, where it feels so inherently like home and childhood and calm and peace. She can maybe share that with him.

He’s not such an arse that she’ll drive him away from _this_.

So she’s surprised when he actually comes up to her, because why would anyone come up here except to feel the joy of the night?

Well, apparently, to talk to _her_ which, yes, is annoying, but also, why?

And he mumbles something that might be a greeting and she glances at him to acknowledge he said it, and he scratches the back of his neck (which is more endearing than it should be) and heaves a sigh she can almost feel in her bones before he starts really talking.

And he’s apologizing for what he’d said. And he’s explaining that he didn’t know what she’d been through. And after a few moments of silence, he rubs the scarred side of his face and tells her a story about a boy who was cheerful and bright and thought the world was a happy place and learned the _violently hard way_ that it wasn’t.

And she _gets it_ , she really does. Something like that, it colors your worldview. And when the world drops straight into hell, it’s even harder to see that things can be nicer, kinder, better.

“You could’ve just spoken to me. You assumed. That I was incompetent, and ditzy, and _fragile_ ,” she spits the last word out like it’s the worst insult anyone could deliver to her and the thing is that it _is_. “You assumed you knew me better than anyone else here, that you cared more, knew more about the world.”

She’s silent for a long time, and thankfully he is too, before she says, “Happiness is a choice I make every day. For myself, and for my family. I decided when I came home that I could let everything that happened bring me down, or I could stand up and use my _anger_ for something good.” She takes a deep breath and continues, “Because I am angry, I am _furious_. There are days I want to find everyone that hurt me and _rip their throats out with my teeth_ and you know what I do when I feel like that?”

She shoots him a sharp look and he shakes his head, a vaguely awestruck expression on his face.

“I smile. I bake. I tease Theon. I hug Bran. I do _something_ to make _someone_ happier. Because even if I can’t be happy, they _should be_.”

And that’s really the last she wants to say on the whole subject but his brow furrows and he looks genuinely concerned when he asks, “Why can’t you be happy?”

She sighs and tilts her head back and stares at the rabbit on the moon, releasing a breath that vibrates with the desire to howl. “When I’m happy, that’s when everything goes wrong. Better to be ready.”

He seems to have decided he asked the wrong question, then, because his next one is, “What happened, those two days you were gone?”

She knows what he’s asking, she’s honestly surprised no one else ever has. Especially Arya. Especially Jon. But maybe they’re too worried about her mental health, whereas Sandor seems to be trying to prove he doesn’t think she’s going to fall to pieces and _gods_ does she appreciate that.

“I was heading out of town when… A man with a pack of zombies he led around, he used, I’m not sure, I saw someone with a shock collar and a walkie out front of the group, running, always running, and the zombies, they had pink spray paint on them. They were marked, they were _his_ and… I saw him by accident, but he was on a roof and he had a walkie and the one with the collar was running… I… was on the ground and he saw me. And the one with the collar started towards me and,” she swallows, “I ran and ran and I hid in a tree and they couldn’t climb but they- they _tried_ and… and someone else came by, tall woman on a motorcycle, she got their attention and told me to run and I ran straight home.”

She heaves a massive breath, it’s not a sigh, more like a gasp coming back up.

There’s silence.

She’s still watching the moon.

She doesn’t know what he might say. What she wants him to say. Or do. He’s just next to her, letting her breathe. Maybe that’s what she wants. To just be able to breathe.

Finally, she feels his palm in the middle of her back, not rubbing or patting, just placed here. And it feels like an anchor. She can finally feel her heart beat and her lungs inflate and it’s better now.

And in the silence his voice is a soft rumble when he says, “I understand.”

And hers is almost a whisper when she says, “I forgive you.”

And then it’s just them and the stars and the moon and things feel maybe a little bit more okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one fought with me and I had to get all In My Head and Moody to make it happen.
> 
> The FUN should come back soon I HOPE?!

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know your thoughts, all. Also, if you don't mind spoilers, [here's the google doc with everything](https://docs.google.com/document/d/10Hs1QBVMPxZUoni4Cp3IE8LtT4HT0q3qHvlHs6m4nCU/edit?usp=sharing) I and the other nutters in the [SanSan discord](https://discord.gg/28Zy52y) came up with for this AU.


End file.
